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· 620

Whan the dwarfe, and mayde Ely,
Came to Arthoure kyng so fre,
As a kyng of great renowne
That wan the lady of Synadowne."
Lybius was graunted the batayle tho,
Therfore the dwarfe was full wo,
And fayd, Arthur, thou art to blame ;
To bydde this chylde go fucke his dame,
Better hym semeth, fo mote i thryve,
Than for to do these batayles fyve,
At the chapell of Salebraunce.
These wordes began great distaunce,
They sawe they had the victory,
They kneled downe and cryed mercy;
And afterward, syr, verament,
They called hym knyght abfolent.
Emperours, dukes, knyghtes, and queņe,
At his commaundement for to bene,
Suche fortune with grace now to you fall,
To wynne ihe worthyest within the wall,
And thynke on your love alone,
And for to love that ye chaunge none.
Ryght as they talked thus, in fere,
Theyr enemyes approched nere and nere,

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Foure and thyrty, armed bryght,
The steward had arayed hym to fyght.
The steward was ordeyned to spy,
And for to take them utterly.
He wende to death he should have gone,
He felled seven men agaynst hym one ;
Whan he had them to grounde brought,
The stewarde at hym full fadly fought,
So harde they smote together tho,
The stewardes throte he cut in two,
And fone he fell downe to the grounde,
As a traitour untrewe with many a wound.
The squyer fone in armes they hente,
And of they dyd his good garmente,
And on the stewarde they it dyd,
And fone his body therin they hydde,
And with their swordes his face they share,
That she thould not knowe what he ware,
They cast hym at her chambre-dore,
The stewarde that was styffe and store.
Whan they had made that great affraye,
Full pryvely they stale awaye ;
In arme they take that squyer tho,
And to the kynges chambre can they go,

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Without wemme or any wounde,
Before the kynge bothe hole and founde.
As soone as the kynge him fpyed with eye,
He fayd, Welcome, fonne, fykerly;
Thou hast cast thee my fonne to be,
This seven yere i shall let thee.

Leve we here of this fquyer wight,
And speake we of that lady bryght,
How she rose, that lady dere,
To take her leve of that squyer ;
Al fo naked as she was borne,
She stod her chambre-dore beforne.
Alas! The fayd, and wealeaway!
For all to long now have i lay;
She sayd, Alas! and all for wo!
Withouten men why came ye fo?
Yf that ye wolde have come to me,
Other werninges there might have be.
Now all to dere my love is bought,
But it shall never be lost for nought;
And in her armes she toke hym there,
Into the chamber she dyd hym bere ;
His bowels foone she dyd out-drawe,
And buryed them in goddes lawe.

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· 690

She fered that body with fpecery,
With wyrgin waxe and commendry;
And closed hym in a maser-tre,
And set on hym lockes thre.
She put him in a marble-stone,
With quaynt gynnes many one;
And set hym at hir beddes head,
And every day she kyst that dead.
Soone at morne, whan she uprose,
Unto that dead body she gose,
Therfore wold The knele downe on her kne,
And make her prayer to the trynite,
And kysse that body twyfe or thryse,
And fall in a swowne or she myght ryse.
Whan she had so done,
To chyrche than wolde Ne gone,
Than would she here masses fyve,
And offre to them whyle she myght lyve:
“ There shall none knowe but heven kynge
For whom that i make myne offrynge."
The kyng her father anone he fayde
My doughter, wy are you dysmayde?
So feare a lady as ye are one,
And so femely of feshe and bone,

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Ye were whyte as whalës bone,
Nowe are ye pale as any stone;
Your ruddy read as any chery,
With browes brent, and eyes full mery ;
Ye were wont to harpe and fyng,
And be the meriest in chambre comyng;
Ye ware both golde, and good velvet,
Clothe of damaske, with faphyres fet;
Ye ware the pery on your head,
With stones full oryent, whyte, and read;
Ye ware coronalles of golde,
With diamoundes fet many a foulde ;
And nowe ye were clothes of blacke,
Tell me, doughter, for whose fake?
If he be so poore of fame,
That ye may not be wedded for hame,
Brynge him to me anone ryght,
I shall hym make fquyer and knight;
And, yf he be so great a lorde,
That your love may not accorde,
Let me, doughter, that lordynge se,
He fall have golde ynoughe with thee.
“ Gramercy, father, fo mote i thryve,
For i mourne for no man alyve.

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